


Slowing

by rolypoly_panda



Series: Whumptober 2020 - Prodigal Son [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Whumptober 2020, its sad boy hours for malcolm bright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda
Summary: Depression is a cancer, a monster that devours without reprieve. It consumes the host, taking over their thoughts, their bodies, scarring them to the point where even functionality seems impossible.Malcolm knows this all too well. After all, there isn't much a difference between depression and the Surgeon, between himself and Martin Whitly.WHUMPTOBER 2020 PROMPT:"No More"
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Whumptober 2020 - Prodigal Son [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955074
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Slowing

**Author's Note:**

> All copyright content doesn't belong to me. All characters belong to FOX.

The whiskey was heavy in his hand and hot in his stomach, burning a trail of fire from his tongue down his throat. Malcolm leaned into the sensations, letting them draw him into the blurriness of intoxication and away from the weight of the world. He was exhausted, and for no reason in particular, annoyingly enough. There hadn’t been any strenuous cases, nor stressful moments in the precinct and yet Malcolm felt incomplete, raw at the edges. If he even shifted, he felt as if he were going to crack.

While it hadn't happened often, sometimes the darkness would grab hold of him. It held him by the scruff of the neck and threatened to drown him in blood. In his blood, his father's blood, the blood of their victims. 'Their' victims, because Malcolm wasn't sure if he was a murderer. He wasn't sure if his father had made him kill, if he had _willingly_ killed. With missing memories, there was always a possibility, and it was inescapable. No matter how many cases he solved, how many people he saved, it never felt enough.

For decades, people had told Malcolm that he had been a victim of the Surgeon.

But that just didn't feel true.

Malcolm tipped his head back as he washed down the remainder of the whiskey in his glass. A hum of bitter contentment was squeezed out of him. Malcolm closed his eyes, easing into the nothingness...

A knock at his front door jerked him to awareness.

Malcolm twisted around and dragged himself off the bar stool. His fingertips felt fuzzy, his limbs numbed. It took longer than he had anticipated to reach the door and, once he had, Malcolm sagged against it, body too heavy to feel human.

For a second, he contemplated leaving the door shut. He _wanted_ to. He _wanted_ to shut them out. Shut everyone out and rest. But Malcolm didn't know how to rest, and sleep brought no peace. 

The knocking continued. Slowly, Malcolm swung it open.

On the other side, Gil glanced him over.

“Hey, Bright.” His coat was draped over his arm and a softened smile was crinkling the corners of his eyes. A smile tailored just for Malcolm, made with equal parts concern and compassion, steeped in decades of handling someone as fragile as him. It should have been endearing, Malcolm knew, but at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to slam the door in Gil's face. Gingerly, Gil gestured inside with his chin. "Can I come in?"

Malcolm's heart skipped.  His stomach clenched sharply. He fought the urge to shake his head and run. 

Regardless of Gil’s intentions, his presence made Malcolm uneasy. Perhaps it was the fact that Gil  _ never _ made house calls, or perhaps it was the fact that Gil  _ only _ made house calls  _ to Malcolm _ , in particular, but only when he deemed them necessary. Which meant that Gil found a reason to be at Malcolm's loft. An interrogation would follow, and then a pressing need to decipher his wellbeing would come straight after. But Malcolm didn't want to disclose such information. He just wanted to be _done._ With _everything_. With the questions and the answers, the therapy, the medication, the lies...

He _wasn't_ okay.

Gil was looking between him and the half-opened door. His brows dipped dangerously. "Bright? Are you okay?"

Was Malcolm _supposed_ to be okay? Because he wasn't. He couldn't be. The question drifted between them, and Malcolm could feel the alcohol-induced numbness thinning like a breaking rope. The strands were coming loose, the threads were splitting under the weight of the heaviness growing in Malcolm's chest. _God_ , he wasn't okay. He felt as if he were drowning in himself, being smothered by his own thoughts, by things that were so far out of his control that he couldn't hope to handle them himself and so when he sucked in a breath, then another, then a third and a fourth, he realized none of them were enough, that none of them would _be_ enough. Nothing would _ever_ be enough.

Gil inched closer.

Malcolm tensed.

"I'm fine." he lied.

Gil tried, "Having a late night?"

"Late nights are dependent on sleep following after." Malcolm spat. The numbness in his lips had spread like a cancer. He couldn't even feel his heartbeat anymore. "I don't sleep, Gil."

Gil hesitated, his shoulders squaring. "Look, kid--"

"Why are you here...?" Malcolm interrupted.

Gil said, gently, _honestly_ , "I wanted to check on you. You've been... _W_ _ell_ , you haven't been _you_ , lately."

A small, desperate part of Malcolm soared at those words. It told him, "Gil wants to help you." It said, "Let him help you." For a second, Malcolm hesitated, because trusting Gil and opening up to such vulnerability was dangerous. Anything could happen. But then Malcolm caught Gil's eyes and he saw nothing but kindness. He saw nothing but a father extending a hand to his son and, for a second, Malcolm saw it. Saw the promise of being okay, of _healing_ in ways that therapy and medication could never offer. He leaned into it, breathing it in...

"I'm fine." he heard himself say.

Malcolm choked on nothing, his windpipe closing.

He couldn't stop himself.

The words just poured out. A reflex. Completely automatic.

Yet, he couldn't take them back.

Something inside him didn't _want_ to take them back.

Malcolm locked up.

Gil nodded slowly, then, as if he were struggling to digest those words, too. Malcolm felt his entire body go cold.  "Okay," Gil mumbled, deflating into himself. His gaze dropped. "Goodnight, then, Bright."

Malcolm felt himself scream from the inside. Something animalistic clawed from inside his chest, pleading to be heard, desperate to reach out and wail and beg Gil to stay, to wait, to _see_ him. But then he mumbled a breathless, "goodnight" and slammed the door shut, and Malcolm cracked. His heart was disjointed, misaligned at the center, leaving him to slide to the floor in a heap of silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Check out my (mostly Umbrella Academy) [Tumblr](https://itty-bitty-rampaging-committee.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


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